


Depart from an Established Course

by ThrillingDetectiveTales



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detective AU, Alternate Universe - Detroit: Become Human Fusion, Faraday is shitshow, Gen, M/M, Rating May Change, Tags May Change, Vasquez is an android
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-15 10:59:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16932024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThrillingDetectiveTales/pseuds/ThrillingDetectiveTales
Summary: Faraday hooked a thumb over his shoulder, toward the silent presence loitering ominously at the back of the room. “I ain’t partnering with some plastic asshole just because the schmucks up in Detroit said so.”“Of course not,” Sam agreed easily. “You’re partnering with him because I’m your boss, and I’m telling you to.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I’m trying to rekindle my love for the Mag7 fandom because I miss writing in it a lot, and I have too much baggage tied up in my existing WIPs to make them fun to jump back into right now so, have a new thing!
> 
> I’m not abandoning my WIPs! I’m still working on them in the wings but it’s a slow process because I haven’t had a lot of passion for them in awhile and I’m trying not to force it, but I have every intention of honoring the amazing response I’ve gotten to them by seeing them through at some point.
> 
> In the meantime, I wanted to give myself some fun Faraday/Vasquez to sink my teeth into and as I’ve been playing a LOT of Detroit: Become Human, I decided to combine the two! 
> 
> Welcome to the first bit of a shitshow android murder mystery! Enjoy, and expect to see the next chapter sometime later this week. <333

“This is bullshit,” Joshua Faraday said, glaring down over his folded arms at the Captain of the Sacramento Police Department’s second district.  
  
Sam Chisolm stared back at him, unmoved. As though he wasn’t single-handedly responsible for what was gearing up to be the worst day of Faraday’s career, even taking into account that afternoon three years ago when he’d taken a bullet to the thigh in the line of duty. His leg still ached when it rained, or in cold weather, or whenever he sat still for too long, and yet this newest hurdle was already promising to be an even bigger pain in Faraday’s ass than his injury had ever been.  
  
“It’s your assignment,” Sam corrected placidly, leaning back in his rolling chair and flattening one hand against the pristine cluster of papers fanned across his desk. Faraday could read the CyberLife logo even from here, crisp and domineering at the head of each sheet. It made his skin crawl, just looking at it.  
  
“The hell it is,” he shot back. He hooked a thumb over his shoulder, toward the silent presence loitering ominously at the back of the room. “I ain’t partnering with some plastic asshole just because the schmucks up in Detroit said so.”  
  
“Of course not,” Sam agreed easily. “You’re partnering with him because I’m your boss, and I’m telling you to.”  
  
“Sam - ” Faraday started to protest, but the thing lurking at his back cut in before he could state his case.  
  
“Detective Faraday, I can assure you that I was expertly crafted to be of maximum assistance in your daily endeavors and investigations,” it said, in a smooth, heavily accented baritone. “I’m up to date on all current and cutting-edge techniques and methodologies, and am capable of enacting forensic work at the scene, expediting - ”

  
“I don’t give a shit what kinda damned superpowers you got, you jumped-up microwave!” Faraday snarled, wheeling toward it. The android blinked at him, too-human eyes all dark sincerity and long lashes. The little ring of light embedded in its right temple flickered from soft blue to butter yellow, a small furrow sinking between its brows as it frowned - a perfect parody of confusion and disgruntlement that made Faraday’s stomach twist unpleasantly.  
  
It was taller than Faraday by a spare inch or two, with a leaner frame that tapered down from broad shoulders to slim hips and unreasonably long legs. Its glossy black hair had a slight curl to it, mostly slicked back away from its face with an errant lock falling haphazardly over its forehead, probably by design. Its soft-looking mouth was set in a jaw of dark scruff, quirked down at the corners like the android was disappointed by something. As if a calculator had the capacity for disillusionment.  
  
Those CyberLife pricks had dressed it up like a detective and everything, albeit a detective fresh from the exam who hadn’t yet learned to manipulate the dress code for comfort. It was in a pristine white button-down, with a black tie and black slacks, badge gleaming at its belt. Only its smartly cut jacket seemed at all out of place, with a glowing blue triangle on the left lapel and another, larger triangle on the back, underneath the word ‘ANDROID’ in big, easily legible letters. Its class designation, VS650, was embroidered on its right lapel over top of its serial number.  
  
It had introduced itself as Vasquez shortly after Sam had summoned Faraday into his office, whereupon Faraday had realized what was happening and let his temper ignite against the spark of his own stubbornness. It hadn’t reacted to the sudden tantrum beyond a single raised eyebrow and this casual, confident interruption. Even now it was the picture of contained serenity - chest rising and falling in a subtle, natural rhythm that set Faraday’s teeth on edge while it blinked at irregular intervals, lips pressed together as though it were thinking long and hard about the man currently standing before it and not much liking its conclusions.  
  
It wasn’t the first android Faraday had ever seen up close, though it was the first that had ever quite managed to look unimpressed by his presence. The department had a handful of security androids they’d purchased a while back, when CyberLife was still a company on the rise and not the technological monolith it had become. They were mostly decoration - left to stand sentinel in their charging ports unless the SPD needed to trot them out for some banal reason, like holding the perimeter at a crime scene or padding the security roster at large events. Very occasionally the brass liked to line them up, all spruce and impressive, at the periphery of some fundraiser or gala, a physical representation of the investments the city had already made in this district as a whole and should endeavor to continue making in the future.  
  
The cop-bots could take basic orders and accomplish simple tasks, but they weren’t sophisticated enough to hold a conversation much beyond small talk, or disseminating whatever information was necessary for them to enact the mission they had been assigned. Not that Faraday had ever gone out of his way to try and chat with them. There was a certain stiffness to their gaits, a predictable rhythm to their speech patterns, a vacancy in their eyes that would have given them away even if they hadn’t been swaddled in light-up gear with LED implants glaring on their foreheads.  
  
This android seemed - different.

It shared the same more obvious trimmings, with its own LED and luminescent wardrobe, but there was more to it, somehow. Though it hadn’t done a whole lot beyond sitting quietly in the background - and, presumably, judging Faraday’s poor behavior - the few contained movements it had made possessed a grace the security ‘droids lacked, and there was a familiar, unsettling intelligence in those dark eyes. It even talked right, conversational cadence and verbal tics all too convincingly human.  
  
_It ain’t real,_ Faraday reminded himself, but that only made the queasy anxiety in his belly worse. His stomach ached and his head hurt - he really should have brought his coffee in here with him, even if it might have only solved one of those problems. It would have been something to do other than raging at Sam and staring mutinously into the unimpressed face of the VS650, anyway.  
  
“Rein it in, Faraday,” Sam admonished waspishly, voice gone tight with exasperation. “The folks up at CyberLife developed a couple of specialized prototypes to assist in investigating crimes committed by androids. As ours is one of a few precincts to have seen a dramatic upswing in android crime over the last six months, the honor of testing one of these models has fallen to us.”

“So, what, CyberLife says it’s playtime at the precinct and we just bend over?” Faraday scowled, gesturing broadly with his arms at nothing in particular.

“Faraday - ” Sam started warningly, but Faraday barreled on, turning toward Sam despite the fact that having the android at his back made the flesh of his neck prickle with unease.

“A precinct with a criminal upswing doesn’t seem like the best testing ground for equipment we ain’t even sure is gonna work,” he insisted. Behind him, the android made a little sound, brittle but soft. Faraday would have called it a derisive snort if it’d come from a human, but who knew what kind of funny exhaust ports these things were sporting. He didn’t give enough of a shit to wonder what the sound actually was, and with any luck he would never be familiar enough with the VS650 to know for sure.

Across the desk, Sam sighed, harsh and exasperated, flicking his dark gaze to the ceiling and back down again. He leaned forward onto his elbows, hands pressed together and fingers steepled in front of his thoughtfully pursed mouth. He considered Faraday for a long moment before he asked, “Do you find me a foolish man, detective?”

Faraday blanched, mouth going sour and dry, headache humming behind his temples.

“No, sir,” he responded mulishly. He suspected he did not sound especially sincere. Behind him, the robot made that funny chuffing noise again. Faraday nearly turned on it, but he was teetering on the edge of deep shit, here. Couldn’t afford to be distracted by Hal-9000 and its questionable sense of humor.

Sam arched an eyebrow, gaze jumping past Faraday to peer at the android in austere rebuke. It must have made some conciliatory gesture because after a few seconds Sam dipped his head in a shallow nod and turned his attention back to Faraday.

“Then it shouldn’t surprise you to know that I looked through all of the research and data CyberLife provided, in the interest of ensuring that the prototype assigned to this precinct was the best fit, for all of us.”

Faraday stared for a long second, the gears in his brain catching and spinning. He furrowed his brow and hooked a thumb over his shoulder, demanding hotly, “You mean to tell me there are _more_ of these things out there?”

“Several, in fact,” Sam agreed, immediate and easy. Faraday scowled. “One up in Brooklyn, just got promoted to Sergeant. One in Portland, one that’s been operating for a considerable number of years in Chicago, and one back in Detroit. There are likely others that CyberLife didn’t deem fit to mention, besides.”

“And one here,” Faraday added. Sam inclined his head.

“One here.” He brought his two first fingers together, hands still clasped, and pointed at the android. “This one, in particular, which I requested specifically, in part because I thought his skill set would dovetail nicely with yours.”

“Why does it have to be me?” Faraday demanded, more desperately than he was proud of. “You know I hate robot shit. Teddy’s got a giant boner for these plastic assholes, can’t he lug it around for a week?”  
  
“This prototype was made to assist in investigations, and Officer Quick is a beat cop,” Sam said. “Besides, more than half your current caseload involves androids, and your solve rate has been suffering for lack of a partner.”  
  
Faraday didn’t flinch, but only because he’d spent most of his life training himself out of the impulse. It was true enough that most of his current cases had an android somewhere in the mix, but he and Sam both knew that Faraday’s love for the bottle was damning his rates worse than working solo ever could. If handcuffing him to the tin-can detective over there was Sam’s newest attempt at swindling him into rectifying his ways, Faraday supposed he could go along with it for now.  
  
He owed Sam that much, after everything, though he still didn’t like it. He’d never trusted androids, and the rise in so-called deviancy across the country seemed an affirmation of his good sense in nursing that suspicion. Especially if CyberLife was concerned enough by the erratic behavior of these deviants to tinker up an entirely new class of android to help sniff them out.  
  
“Fine,” he muttered, stalking toward the door. The android tracked him with its gaze but thankfully made no move to follow. The last thing Faraday needed right now was that plastic jackass crowding him. He paused on the threshold of Sam’s office and added, “But it ain’t on me if the thing gets busted, or if it fucks something up in the field.”  
  
“Assuming you don’t willfully throw it in harm’s way?”  
  
If Sam was the type of man to smirk at his own humor, he’d be doing it now, Faraday knew. He rolled his eyes and spun halfway back around, tossing up a sloppy Boy Scout salute.  
  
“I promise not to break the stupid thing on purpose,” Faraday assured, employing only roughly half the sarcasm he generally used as a gesture of sincerity. He wasn’t about to throw himself into the line of fire to protect what was essentially just a walking computer, but he would do his best not to let it run out into traffic, either. Or, he wouldn’t do his worst, anyway.

The prototype was probably expensive, at the very least, and he doubted his salary would stand the strain if he had to split it between funding his drinking habits and paying off government property that had been damaged due to negligence.  
  
“Just treat him like you would any other colleague,” Sam instructed.  
  
Faraday snorted and asked hopefully, “ _Any_ colleague?”

“Barring Detective McCann,” Sam amended, cutting him a flat glare.  
  
Faraday waved a hand in acknowledgment and shouldered the door open.  
  
“Not even Roomba deluxe over there deserves that,” he agreed, though he was only being partially sincere.  
  
McCann was a righteous prick who drew more of Faraday’s ire than most, but time would tell what the android deserved. If it wound up being even more of a chore to put up with than McCann, Faraday would delight in doling out his retribution accordingly, regardless of any promises he might have made to the contrary, and Sam well knew it. Faraday couldn’t quite guess at the game Sam was playing, foisting the damned thing off on him, of all people, but there’d be time enough to suss it out. He wasn’t a detective for nothing, even if he hadn’t been explicitly created by a team of specialists to suit the task.  
  
He pushed out into the bullpen and let the door fall shut behind him, not bothering to check and see whether the android was following along or not. The door was pressurized, which meant there was only the soft whoosh of air at Faraday’s back as he retreated rather than a satisfying metallic clang. For a moment, he entertained a fantasy in which the android _was_ up his ass and caught a door to the face, though its superior reflexes would likely never allow that to happen. Still, it made him feel a little better.

The cup of coffee he’d nabbed from the break room on his way in was long since lukewarm, abandoned precariously on the corner of his desk, and there was a 60-40 chance that McCann had spit in it on his way to his own station. Faraday risked a sip, anyway. His desire to hunker down amid the familiar clutter of his workspace and forget this morning had ever happened was significantly stronger than any remaining vestiges of dignity he might have pretended he still had.  
  
The coffee was stone cold, with a slightly greasy film on top, but it didn’t taste like anything besides bitter, burnt dark roast that had sat out too long, so Faraday took it as a solid draw.  
  
He glanced up and nearly spilled his mediocre beverage all over his lap - the VS650 was hovering roughly four inches from his shoulder, lazily letting its gaze rove over the eclectic, and now coffee-drenched, topography of his desk.  
  
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ!” Faraday hissed, shaking out his soaked hand and glowering at the rust-brown stain that had slopped onto his coat sleeve. “What the fuck?”  
  
“I apologize for startling you, detective,” the VS650 supplied, in a flat tone that Faraday would have read as meaning precisely the opposite, were it not coming from a sentient toaster. Faraday didn’t know if you could program an android to have a blisteringly dry sense of sarcasm, but he doubted that would have been a highly prioritized subroutine in the VS650’s coding even if it was possible. “I came to ask if you know of a free desk somewhere I might use?”  
  
Faraday ignored it for a long moment, digging through the detritus on his desk until he found a water-stained electricity bill that would serve well enough to wipe up the spilled coffee. He took his sweet time tidying the mess, shuffling things and grumbling under his breath, but his heart wasn’t really in it. Largely because it turned out that ignoring the VS650 was something of a lackluster experience.

It didn’t wheedle, or fidget, or indulge any of the other little quirks that made having another human on the hook for a response so satisfying a torture. It just sat there and waited, patient and still.  
  
“That one,” Faraday said grudgingly after nearly three whole minutes, gesturing vaguely to the empty desk butted up against his own. After all, he reasoned darkly, there was a very legitimate possibility that the VS650 would stand there motionless all day unless he gave it something to do.  
  
The VS650 inclined its head and said politely, “Thank you, detective.” It turned and strode around past the front of Faraday’s desk, pausing just behind the unoccupied chair of the next desk over as though it were hesitating.  
  
Faraday glanced up, flushing with irritation when he found the android watching him with that same gentle frown it had worn in Sam’s office, the same soft divot between its brows.  
  
“What?” he snapped, and the VS650 blinked at him.  
  
“Perhaps I could bring you a fresh cup of coffee?” it asked, clasping its hands somewhere behind its back.  
  
“What are you, my secretary?” Faraday huffed with a scowl.  
  
The VS650 tilted its head, almost thoughtful, and looked at Faraday like it suspected he might be a bit slow on the uptake.  
  
“I’m the android sent by CyberLife - ” it started to rattle off, the same scripted spiel it had given when it first introduced itself. Faraday help up a hand.

  
“Can it, Threepio,” he muttered. “I know what you are, and who sent you, and I can get my own damn coffee with my own damn hands. Don’t need no glorified CyPhone to do it for me.”

He pushed up off his desk, tugging the lower hem of his jacket down where it had ridden up in the back, and turned in the direction of the break room. He took one step, stopped, and jabbed an insistent finger back toward the VS650.

“And you didn’t startle me,” he added sullenly. “I was just - distracted, is all.”  
  
He didn’t wait for a response before stalking off toward the distant chatter of his fellow officers and the overwhelming reek of burning coffee grounds. He may not have had much dignity left, but what little of it there was could do without the tarnish of losing his temper on the department’s newest piece of equipment. In public, at least.  
  
He knew that the android watched him tromp down the hallway until he turned the corner, vanishing beyond its line of sight, because he was watching the android right back - tracking its phantom reflection in the frosted glass panes that lined the bullpen, in the dark gleam of powered down computer monitors. A banal human skill of observation honed over years of quietly tailing the worst kinds of scum around the city, but effective nonetheless.

He wondered if simply slipping out of its field of vision was enough to mask his progress from the android, or if it had other sensors that let it follow his path all the way to the break room. It gave him chills to think about the VS650 staring placidly into the middle distance, locked onto the heat signature of Faraday’s body in its mind’s eye while he trekked merrily on, none the wiser.  
  
Any momentary relief he might have won himself with the physical distance evaporated immediately at the thought. Faraday picked up his pace, hunching a little, shoulders tightening up as he glanced worriedly over his shoulder, suddenly paranoid that the VS650 would be standing right there. It wasn’t, of course, but its absence did little to soothe Faraday’s nerves. Especially because the familiar cacophony of the break room, which hosted an unusually large crowd considering the time of day, went instantly silent the moment he stepped inside.

For a long, fraught moment, Faraday simply stood and stared into the assemblage with his usual bad grace. Only the greenest officers were foolish enough to gawp at him where he paused in the doorway, lacking any up-close and personal experience with his legendary temper.

McCann was there, too, looking smug and gleeful, but that bastard had been shooting Faraday shit eating smirks over paper cups of burnt station coffee for longer than Faraday could remember. All the sharp edges of their antagonism had been worn smooth with the passage of time and a few well-earned suspensions for brawling, so it was simple enough to ignore him for now.

“What?” Faraday snapped at nobody in particular, striding purposefully toward the collection of burbling coffee pots lining the back wall. Conversation picked back up again in a muted hum as he pressed forward, catching his shoulder on the occasional wide-eyed rookie who didn’t get out of his way quite fast enough. Tension broken, most of the crowd dispersed with a few muttered greetings and nods of acknowledgement, until Faraday was left filling a waxed paper cup to the brim with pitch-dark coffee in as near to solace as one could get in a busy precinct.

McCann was still loitering along the far counter, and a few exhausted beat cops were humping the last couple hours of the night shift at a table in the corner, slumping over their lunches with bruise-tired eyes. The only other person foolish enough to linger was Teddy, in a uniform so crisply pressed it made Faraday’s eyes sting. He was chattering excitedly under his breath to Emma, the pretty, frigid redhead from down in Forensics.

She cut Faraday a sharp, unimpressed glance over Teddy’s shoulder while the latter gestured animatedly with one hand, her flint-blue eyes glittering with malice when Faraday winked at her in response.

“Heard you got a new partner, Faraday,” drawled a familiar, fast-approaching voice from somewhere at Faraday’s back. He didn’t bother to acknowledge it beyond a grunt, turning his attention to doctoring his coffee with an unholy measure of cream and sugar, half to accommodate for the miserable taste, and half to have something to do with his hands that wasn’t turning around and laying one against McCann’s jaw.

McCann, as usual, was not dissuaded in the least by Faraday’s glaring disinterest. He pushed up into Faraday’s space, close enough that their shoulders knocked together, and backed up to lean his hip into the counter. He had his arms crossed over his chest and looked as much like an ass as he always did, with his stupid leather jacket over a hooded sweatshirt, look of smug superiority permanently disfiguring his features.

“What’d you drink so much they had to bring in a wind-up toy to hold your hand?” he continued pleasantly. Faraday took a breath through his nose, pressed his tongue hard against the inside of his lower lip, savoring the scrape of his teeth. He bit in for a brief second and then shrugged.

“‘Spect it might look that way, to someone who ain’t never been hand-picked for a special assignment before,” he agreed. “Easy mistake to make, without the experience.”

He cut McCann a hard little smirk, clapped a palm to his shoulder hard in a farcical showing of supportive commiseration. “Don’t worry, bud, you keep pluggin’ away and someday maybe _you’ll_ be first pick.”

McCann’s jovial grin sharpened at the edges, eyes narrowing. He shrugged Faraday’s hand off and pushed away from the counter, holding his arms out with his palms open, broad and pacifying.

“If it means counting on a blow-up doll for backup, you can keep that distinction for yourself, Faraday,” he smirked. He paused, tilting his head thoughtfully to one side and cutting a wide-eyed, saccharinely sincere look in Faraday’s direction. “Hope it doesn’t show you up too bad. I’d hate to lose such an _upstanding colleague_ just ‘cause RoboCop’s got better numbers.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets, lifting his shoulders in a shrug. “Guess you’re not worried about that, though. Bein’ hand picked and all.”  
  
Faraday curled one palm over the edge of the countertop, leaned his weight back into it. He lifted his glass in a mock toast and said blandly, “Fuck off, McCann,” before forcing down a hard slug of it, sour burnt roast and sugar tang.

“Whoa now, Joshua,” McCann cautioned with a low whistle. “Oughta pump the brakes on the temper a’ yours. Wouldn’t look too good for you to get suspended during such a _special_ _assignment_ , now, would it?”

He didn’t linger long enough for Faraday to respond to the completely unsubtle threat, winking and clicking his tongue before spinning on his heel and meandering casually back out into the hall. The bastard even had the gall to whistle a tune as he went. Faraday glowered at his back and choked down another mouthful of coffee, licking his teeth to scrape away the filmy coating left in its wake.

There was a long moment of blissful silence before a voice of higher pitch and significantly greater judgment announced to the room at large, “Well, that was embarrassing.”

Faraday turned to peer at Emma where she was posted up further down the counter, next to a glowing, humming microwave with a thin sheaf of papers folded in half and tucked under her arm. Teddy lingered at her shoulder, looking torn between laughing at her comment and apologizing for it. He offered a stunted, hesitant wave, to which Faraday simply glared in response.

“McCann usually is,” he agreed brusquely. Emma rolled her eyes and uncrossed her arms, setting the papers aside and turning her attention to the microwave. She yanked the door open and reached into poke at something for a few seconds before slapping it shut and starting it up again.

She didn’t bother to correct his purposeful misinterpretation of her comment, but she gave him a long, considering look before shaking her head and saying disgustedly, “It’s a waste is what it is.”

“What, bringing in Night Rider?” Faraday shrugged. “Ain’t exactly my first choice, either.”

“Partnering him with _you,”_ she retorted. “I don’t know what he did to warrant that kind of punishment but it must’ve been bad.”

“Fuck you too,” Faraday said, hunching his shoulders. “If you’re gagging to get on CyberLife’s dick so bad go talk Chisolm into making it Forensics’ problem.”

“I _tried_ ,” Emma said, mean and sharp, and Faraday blinked in surprise. “The minute I heard we might be getting a prototype I petitioned for them to be assigned to our team, but for some damned reason the captain seems to think babysitting you is more important than closing cases.” The microwave clicked to a stop and beeped perkily into the silence. Emma stared at him for a second longer, mouth pursed in a furious mioue, before turning to yank it open. “Trust you not to appreciate a once in a lifetime opportunity when it falls into your lap.”

Faraday clenched his jaw, face gone hot with shame, and drew himself taut like he was getting ready to throw a blow. Teddy winced at him from Emma’s back and cut his gaze awkwardly away. Faraday’s face flared hotter still, pulse pounding at his temples.

“Like dragging an oversized action figure around is supposed to be some big fucking honor?”

Emma collected a gently steaming tupperware and nudged the microwave door shut with her elbow. She huffed an irritated breath and shook her head sharply, braided whip of red hair lashing.

“You’re gonna choke on your own ego someday, Faraday,” she muttered, carefully shuffling the tupperware to one hand so she could scoop up the papers. She stalked over and slapped the packet against Faraday’s chest so hard he nearly spilled his coffee. Again.

“There was blue blood at your crime scene,” she said flatly. “‘RoboCop’ would’ve been able to tell you that in _minutes_ instead of letting your leads go cold for three days of processing time. But sure,” she shrugged, stepping away, “he’s just there to dog your heels and ruin your day.”

She stormed another few steps toward the door before turning sharply on her heel and saying, much more tenderly, “See you later, Teddy.”

The man in question raised one arm in a vague, half-formed wave, which Emma rewarded with a sincere but close-lipped smile. Faraday watched her go for a few seconds before deciding that scowling into his coffee was the better part of valor. He crammed the papers into his jacket pocket, not caring if they got wrinkled or torn.

He loitered for a few long minutes, taking slow, measured sips of his terrible coffee and stewing in the uncomfortable tension Emma had wrought. With any luck, the awful, embarrassed heat might  leach out of his face given a little time. Damned Irish complexion never was good for keeping composure.

The drumming in his head had finally begun dulling to a low throb when Teddy offered hesitantly across the distance, “So. Do you know what model he is?”

The beat roared back at volume, tangled knot of feeling catching high in Faraday’s throat and temperature rising in his cheeks. He pushed off the counter hard and made for the door, forcing down a final mouthful of coffee before throwing the empty cup into a waiting receptacle with far greater force than the action demanded.

“Ask it your fucking self,” he barked without looking over.

He wasn’t running with his tail tucked from Teddy Q of all people, he insisted to himself as he went. This was a tactical retreat, that was all. He’d been catching shit from all angles since he first rolled in, and he just needed a little time to regroup. He was right about the fucking android and he knew it. Everybody else would see in time.

If none of that felt particularly true, Faraday didn’t see fit to linger on it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The options were to either post a single scene now or make the (likely incorrect) assumption that I might be motivated to complete a second scene to include in this chapter sometime tomorrow (Christmas Eve, not happening) and post it then. I know myself too well to buy into my own assurances that I’ll get things done tomorrow, and I expect the next scene to be fairly lengthy to boot and didn’t want to wait.
> 
> Besides, roughly equivalent chapter lengths are for nerds! Enjoy more robot shenanigans!
> 
> PS - I removed the dictionary definition from the first chapter because I decided belatedly I didn’t want to go that direction. Sorry for any confusion!

Faraday stormed his way back out into the bullpen to find the VS650 sitting placidly at the desk where he’d left it, unmoved by even the slightest centimeter. It didn’t so much as acknowledge his approach with a wayward glance, just sat still as a statue - no carefully metered breath expanding its frame, no randomly patterned blinking shuttering the razor focus in its dark eyes. Faraday considered waving a hand in front of it, but rapidly decided that the last thing he wanted right now was more of the android’s unfiltered attention. Besides, he could give a shit if the damned thing experienced full system failure less than half an hour after being assigned his partner.

The VS650 folding this early in the game would only serve to justify his position that androids lacked the capacity to succeed in fields like this one - where information processing intersected with the ugly unpredictability of human nuance. He would hate to interfere and shoot himself in the foot, so to speak.   
  
Still, ignoring his curiosity had never been a particular strength of Faraday’s, so he threw himself into his chair more than he actually sat down, punctuating the loud thud of his bodyweight with a deep, aggrieved sigh. The VS650 didn’t move. Whatever programming it used to mimic and merge with humanity appeared to have been shuffled by the wayside, its considerable processing power redirected and applied with vigor to frowning pensively into a wall of text. The data feed on the computer screen was scrolling by so inhumanly fast that it took Faraday a few seconds to recognize the information readout of the SPD’s digital case-files.    
  
Robocop appeared to be doing its research, at least, for which Faraday managed to muster a shred or two of grudging approval. Not that the VS650 seemed overly concerned with cultivating Faraday’s good opinion. He grimaced his way through a sip of his too-sweet coffee, taking advantage of the android’s distraction to study it without any pretense at subtlety.

It was just as unsettlingly handsome as it had seemed at first glance, with a carefully balanced asymmetry to its features that gave it a natural, human appeal. Faraday had seen enough eerily perfect sex-bots in his time to reluctantly appreciate the slightly squashed quality of the VS650’s nose - like it might have been broken before and set a little wrong - and the laughter lines cutting shallow grooves into the skin beside its sleepily hooded eyes. It was taller than Faraday liked, even seated, largely because Faraday was used to being the biggest man in a room by most physical measures and felt it keenly whenever that position was usurped. He didn’t like to consider how the VS650 might wield that extra inch or two of reach to his detriment if push came to literal shove, as it so often seemed to where Faraday was concerned.

He let his gaze meander, following the scattered path where the VS650’s beard dissolved into scruff along the elegant line of its throat, tracing across its broad shoulders to its starch-stiff shirt collar and the crisply cinched knot of its tie. Its right hand was half-curled against the desktop, first few fingers awkwardly raised in sequence, like it had been drumming them a split second before it froze and just left them hanging in the air. It was pressing the fingertips of its left hand delicately against the thin glass pane of the computer screen, synthetic flesh drawn back so that the sleek ceramic coating of its internal parts gleamed under the unforgiving fluorescent lights.

Faraday started a bit, not expecting the sight. It seemed a strangely vulnerable thing, almost tawdry. Naturally, this inspired Faraday to lean forward for a better look, following the intricately crafted joints and delicate clusters of cables up to the VS650’s forearm, where the cold, slick white coating disappeared up into the sleeve of the its highly impractical jacket. For a taut moment that stretched out before him like pulled taffy, Faraday itched with the desire to reach out and touch.

He didn’t interact with many functional androids in his day-to-day life. He couldn’t have afforded to keep a domestic ‘droid even if he’d wanted one, there was little enough reason to buddy up with the beat-bots at the station, and when it came to matters of intimacy he much preferred the company of his own hand to the clinical touch of a pleasure puppet, as intimate companion androids were called in certain circles. It only made sense that being shackled to one of the plastic pricks for what would presumably be a term of some length might raise a few questions.

He wondered absently what those exposed interior parts would feel like under a human hand.

Most of his cases were investigations into lost or stolen property; androids that had slipped their owners by mundane accident, unlucky providence, or nefarious design, none of which constituted a great necessity for physical contact. On rare occasion he would have to cart a malfunctioning assisted living model into the station or collect a severely damaged working model for return and decommission, but the former could generally be swindled into maneuvering under their own power and the latter were so heavy they required a full team to move. Anytime he did wind up with a handful of android, it was usually an article of clothing, or the slightly gummy give of synthetic skin.

Scarcer still were situations that called for Faraday’s handling internal android parts, most of which were either damaged beyond function or plucked fresh off the shelf for comparison - all cool unmarred titanium and carbon fiber and porcelain waiting to leach heat out of whatever came into contact. He wondered whether the VS650 would be the same, or did the thirium pumping through its system carry heat from the sink in its core out through its limbs? If he reached over and wrapped his fingers around that startlingly fine wrist joint, would it be cool to the touch? Human-warm? Hot enough to scald?    


“ - two days ago?”

Faraday shook himself to attention ith a start, curling his palms tight around his coffee cup, clinging to it like a buoy against a sudden surprising undertow. It was that damned curiosity of his, he considered darkly, driving him to distraction after embarrassing distraction.

“What?” he snapped. The VS650 had pulled itself free of its intense focus pit sometime during Faraday’s internal ramblings, and sat watching him with its eyebrows hovering expectantly near its hairline. Faraday felt his face burn.

“Your most recent case involving an android was assigned two days ago?” the VS650 repeated politely, all smooth baritone and sweet Spanish lilt. It put its head to one side, the disarming, conciliatory gesture of a thoughtful conversationalist.

Faraday wondered where it had learned to do that - was it a subroutine written into the VS650’s program, triggered by some “if-then” paradigm Faraday had unwittingly set into motion? Or was it a behavior the android had seen humans enact and elected to mirror, hoping to lend authenticity to its performance? What about that voice? Was the accent necessary? Did the android even know it had one?

He gritted a sharp, affirmative grunt past his teeth, biting back the million questions flickering like flashbulbs through his mind. Normally, he would bend to his bullheaded investigative instincts and press the VS650 for answers, but indulging his curiosity still felt too much like a failure. As though conceding to the spirit of inquiry would be compromising his principles, like wanting to know more about it would mean admitting that the VS650 was here to stay - for at least a little while - and he might as well get used to it. 

That was a foolish stumbling block, he knew. Emma was right in asserting that there was a lot he could learn from the VS650, presuming that he managed to swallow his pride alongside the ulcer in a cup he’d smuggled out of the breakroom, but crow had never been Faraday’s favorite dish, and he wasn’t about to start choking it down just so he could interrogate Astro Boy with a clear conscience.

“Breaking and entering,” he expounded reluctantly, when the VS650 didn’t respond beyond drawing a thoughtful little furrow along its brow. “Or trespassing, maybe. Got calls about suspicious characters crawlin’ around some warehouse in the old Depot Park district. I checked it out right after it happened, gathered what evidence there was.” He held up the packet of papers Emma had given him and wagged it absently back and forth. “Forensics just confirmed there was blue blood at the scene.”

“Thirium?” the VS650 clarified, to which Faraday didn’t deign to offer a reply. The VS650 continued on like it hadn’t expected one, anyway. “From what model?”

Faraday glanced at the report, confirming his suspicions against Emma’s data before he said, “Too degraded to be sure.” 

The VS650 scoffed. 

Faraday hadn’t known androids were capable of that level of professional derision but there was no mistaking the severely unimpressed look that flickered across the VS650’s features. Clearly the forensic capabilities of the SPD had run up against some interior metric by which the VS650 measured and it had found them unforgivably lacking. Faraday glared at it and added, somewhat defensively, “Might could’ve been multiple models. Too many trace elements all mixed up like that tends to confuse our software.”

“You’ve seen this before?” the VS650 asked, leaning forward and dropping its voice low, as if the two of them were sharing some intimate confidence. There was a warm glint to its eye that Faraday would have called excitement, if he hadn’t been talking about an android. He leaned pointedly away, hackles rising in irritation as he reminded himself viciously that the android’s behavior was a farce, deliberately designed to draw him in, put him at ease. The VS650 didn’t  _ really _ feel anything. It couldn’t. 

“Happens a lot in chop shops,” Faraday explained, brusque and a little mean, hunching in over his desk. 

The warmth in the VS650’s demeanor dimmed considerably at the implication of its peers being butchered and stripped of parts, conspiratorial smirk drooping down into a frown. It left Faraday feeling both vindicated, which was well-deserved, and vaguely guilty, which was irritating. 

The VS650 was a machine. It was important to remember that. Faraday could say whatever he liked to it without needing to worry about impropriety or offense, so it was foolish to feel bad for chasing the companionable glow from its demeanor. He shuffled some papers around to give himself something to do with the little frisson of uncomfortable  energy rushing suddenly  through him and plowed past the awkward moment in his usual ham-fisted fashion. 

“Bunch of different ‘droids coming through, bunch of blue blood all over the place,” he continued with a shrug. “Hell of a mess to sort out but we don’t usually bother working through the particulars. There are bigger parts around if we need to isolate a specific model. It’s enough having the evidence of blue blood at the scene to make charges stick, don’t rightly matter which unit it belonged to.”

“Were there parts in this warehouse?” the VS650 asked pointedly. Faraday leaned casually back in his desk chair, struggling against the unwelcome defensive urge to curl in over himself like a pillbug. It seemed an unnecessary and unusual cruelty, to supply the VS650 with software capable of rendering so much judgment in so few words.

“None that we found,” he admitted mulishly. He slapped the forensic report against the freshly-cleared space on his desktop hard enough that all the tchotchkes crowding the surface wobbled and rattled. “That’s why we’re heading back today, get a real good look with that super brain of yours.”

The VS650 was nodding in agreement before Faraday finished speaking, lacking the decency to look even vaguely abashed at the assertion if its superior investigative capabilities. CyberLife bastards went to the trouble of giving the thing an accent but couldn’t be bothered to write a little good old fashioned humility into its coding. It drew its hand back from the monitor, rolling its fingers in a lazy, elegant wave while synthetic skin spilled over its digits in a sun-bronzed sheathe. 

Heat prickled along the back of Faraday’s neck, and he pushed himself up from his seat so hard his chair nearly toppled over. The VS650 rose gracefully to its feet, watching curiously as Faraday stalked to a nearby wastebasket and discarded his half-empty coffee cup with extreme prejudice. McCann glanced over at the commotion and cut Faraday a sly sliver of a shit-eating grin over top of his gleaming nameplate. Faraday rolled his eyes, snapped his fingers at the VS650, and jerked his thumb over his own shoulder.

“All right , Deep Blue,” he spat, turning heel and striding purposefully toward the back lot, where he’d abandoned his car that morning in a no-parking zone in his haste to be reasonably on-time for his meeting with Chisolm. “Time to sing for your supper.”

It was the greatest blow the VS650 had dealt to his pride so far that its stride was long enough it didn’t even have to hurry to catch up.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


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